


I Think I Knew You Once

by frerarcl



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Camping, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Home Renovation, Multi, Other, Racially Ambiguous Reader, Reader-Insert, basically just really limited descriptions of the reader, but both throughout, i cant help it i just love that good Sappy Shit, more like no pronouns because it's second person, not necessarily in the same chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-21 07:38:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14280159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frerarcl/pseuds/frerarcl
Summary: Familiarity can be a blessing or a curse. Sometimes, it's both.{{a collection of 30 one-shots (and one informational introduction) featuring a few of my favorite boys and gals // fandoms and characters added with each new chapter}}





	1. INTRODUCTION

Does anyone do these intros anymore? I don't know. They used to be pretty popular, anyway. 

By "these intros," I mean a little bit of information about what to expect from this work, because I want to prepare everyone for what's going to be happening in regards to stylistic choices and sensitive content.

Firstly, these are all reader/character one-shots. I love reader-inserts! They're fun! Most of them aren't that great, but still! Personally, I can tolerate the fillers (y/n, h/c, e/c, etc), but if I'm being honest here, I kind of hate them. They feel like they detract from the story. That's why I try not to use them. I'll use those as little as I can, and I'll also limit the amount of description of the reader, because that can also take away from the experience. For example, I'm a gal with very short hair - as in, the only length is about five inches all over the top, and the sides and back are buzz-cut. It's been like that for almost three years, and I don't really remember what it's like to have long hair anymore. Thus, when I read about hair that apparently flows down my back, it can take me out of an otherwise enthralling tale. 

Some things I won't specify in regards to the reader:

  1. Hair length/color
  2. Eye color
  3. Skin tone
  4. Body type
  5. Sex
  6. Gender/pronouns (it's in second person, and I'm not planning on having background characters talk about the reader around them, and also I love a good bit of ambiguity!)



In relation to warnings: the major character death one is listed for a reason, but will _**NOT** _ be applied to every chapter. I'm actually writing based on the prompts found [here](http://stonelions.tumblr.com/post/124337611940/30-multipurpose-prompts-open-to-interpretation) compiled by tumblr user stonelions, and there are a couple that I've got ideas for that involve death. Anything I think might be a trigger will be listed in the notes before a chapter unless it's one of the major archive warnings, in which case I'll add those in due time. 

The mature rating is mostly for language or potentially violence. I don't really write smut (or at least I haven't yet), but if that changes warnings will be provided. There might be the odd implication or reference to sex, but most likely none described. The gen category tag is for two reasons: I want everyone to be able to put themselves into the story as much as possible (regardless of identity) and also because I myself am LGBT+ and want to include some lovely ladies as the other end of the one-shots as well. 

With all that said, continue on, and I hope to hear some feedback from you all as this progresses, because I thrive on positive reinforcement. (Constructive criticism is always welcome, too!)

xo


	2. I. The 11th [Loki]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once a month, you visit that spot again, together.

You huffed into the wind. The breath crystallized in the air of the little clearing before fading out, a reversal of the sun that was just beginning to peer over the horizon, barely visible through the thick wall of trees around you. You clung a little tighter to the warmth of the jacket he'd reminded you to bring along.

"It will be cold," he had said, as though this wasn't the umpteenth time you'd both made the trek through the forest. You had been tempted to tease him, commenting inwardly that, in being with him, you had grown quite accustomed to chill. He wore his standard leathers, all black and green and gold, making him seem far more imposing than you thought you could ever find him. He was tall, you'd give him that, but his muscle was like that of a dancer - lithe, graceful power that seemed to glide about as if suspended by the same cold breeze that was currently wrapping itself around the both of you. You glanced over at him before setting the basket you carried on a nearby rock. His eyes glimmered in the pale light of the early morning, somewhere between blue, green, and loving. A small grin, which you knew he probably didn't know had made its home on his face, played at the ends of his mouth. A light blush dusted his cheeks in response to the wind, which was constantly bouncing from a cool breath over your faces to an icy gust that threatened to send the charcoal scarf wrapped gently around your neck into the nearest tree. He looked horribly content, a rare but welcome change from his normal blank stare or burning scowl. 

You didn't blame him for being so unhappy so often; being born of royal blood certainly must have been exhausting. You wouldn't know; you tended to a bakery on the outskirts of the capital city. The only bad parts of the job, you thought, were the summers by hot ovens and the smell of baked goods that permanently affixed itself to everything you owned. You had, some time ago, noted that it was a lovely smell every now and then, but a bit stifling to be surrounded by at all hours. The smell of fresh-baked bread was present in the clearing, as well, but there was a different reason for that. You reached into the basket and removed a quilt you had acquired in the marketplace, hand-sewn by an old woman who you frequently brought fruit tarts too. She had watched over you as a child when your family could not, and it was your way of saying thank you. You spread the quilt over the ground, which had finally begun showing signs of life again after the long Asgardian winter. From the depths of the basket, you removed a loaf of warm bread, an old recipe you'd found stuffed in the back of a book a few years back and only made for these little excursions. Next, a few fresh fruit that had only the day prior appeared in the market and which you had greedily snatched up. Lastly, a wooden decanter of wine and two cups, one bearing the name of the man beside you, who was currently moving to sit next to you, and one bearing your own. You smiled as you ran your thumb over the runes; it had taken a fair bit of research to figure out which ones to carve, as you weren't overwhelmingly familiar with writing runes in the first place. However, you'd wanted even the cups to be special for days like this, and you'd plowed through all the books you needed to in order to carve the names. You finally fully looked at him as you handed him his cup, and you smiled at each other as you filled the little wooden vessel with wine that had grown warm next to the bread. You weren't complaining - any warmth you could get would be nice, and you knew Loki wouldn't say anything if you didn't. These were the only times he held his tongue, at least in your presence.

He unsheathed a dagger at his side, slicing thick pieces of bread for the both of you. The stream that separated your side of the clearing from the deeper parts of the forest trickled by steadily, its gentle sound providing the instrumental for the birds above to sing along to. 

"Happy eleventh," Loki said with soft eyes. You repeated the words back, thinking of how this came to be. He apparently had the same thought, shifting a bit closer and pulling you into his side, beginning his usual speech to the quiet world around you both.

"Once, not terribly long ago, a brave, handsome, charming prince and his oafish brother were riding through the woods. The former was enjoying the journey as much as he could with a hulking man-beast crashing through the trees next to him," he began, ignoring your light laugh at his descriptions save for smiling a bit wider. "The gorgeous, incredible, graceful king-to-be decided he'd had enough of his horrible companion, and cast a stunningly realistic illusion in his place so that he could enjoy the peace and quiet alone. However, after a few minutes of peaceful trotting, his horse was disturbed by a rather menacing snake and, as a result, galloped away with his intelligent rider unable to console him. The horse ran straight into a clearing cut through by a small stream, and nearly straight into a person who had happened to be looking to gather herbs in the very same spot. He managed to veer the beast away from the villager, and hopped down to assure the gatherer's safety. When he did-"

"I hit him over the head with my grandmother's basket and hurled every profanity I could think of at him, because I thought I was looking death in the face," you cut off, narrowing your eyes at him playfully. "I almost felt bad about it after he insisted he was trying to help me, but then he started rambling about how I was an ungrateful quim unfit to so much as look at him, a royal prince of Asgard. Then I was just annoyed, but I didn't want to be pitched into the dungeons, so I offered him a loaf of my special bread as repayment. He accepted, begrudgingly, when his brother found the both of us and talked him into doing so. He came to my bakery, saw I was infinitely better than him at most everything-" he tapped your shoulder with a fist, feigning a punch you knew would probably dislocate your shoulder if he really meant it- "and started coming around more and more, talking with me over my livelihood. Then, the strangest thing happened: he started courting me, much to the King's chagrin. Now, once a month, on the anniversary of him almost killing me with a horse, the two of us make our pilgrimage to the very same clearing, with the same special bread, and reminisce about how I almost died." You both applaud your joined speech, laughing at the story that was much funnier now than it had been when it occurred. 

"An excellent story, my love," he assured, placing a soft kiss on your temple.

"Not awful, yourself," you replied, opting this time for a less soft kiss on the lips you often teased him about not having. His arms wrapped around you as you leaned back in the spring morning, feeling unbelievably lucky for someone hopelessly in love with the God of Mischief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first foray into writing Loki! I love a good fluffy one-shot, and I love a non-malicious mischief boy even more. How do you guys feel about Wholesome Loki?


	3. II. Lost at the Creek [Loki]

"Fuck," you say, no discernible emotion in your voice. "Fuck, fuck, shit fuck. We're going to die. We're going to starve to death. Motherfuck."

"I really do believe you're overreacting, dearest. It's going to be fine," Loki says from the creek, irritation edging its way into the words.

"Okay, look, that's really easy for you to say when you're on a tube, but all of my supplies are gone and I don't have a cell signal. I can't get us back to the cabin," you reply, frowning at the long figure suspended in the water. You worked for Stark Industries as head of Human Resources, but apparently your title had changed to head of Human and Asgardian Resources, because Tony had tasked you with making sure the picture of relaxation before you and his massive electric brother didn't murder each other or destroy most of Manhattan because someone didn't buy more coffee and the sneaky one drank the last mug. It wasn't all bad, though - Loki was a lot less worrying without his magic, which his not-father (as he insisted you call Odin) had bound before entrusting him to Thor's care. Actually, Loki was kind of nice, if you could get him to stop being an asshole all the time. At first, he'd fought against having to talk to you. You had explained that you were basically his therapist and would serve as a mostly-impartial mediator between the two men. Mostly, because you weren't particularly fond of either of them (one tried to lead a genocide, yeah, but the other was impolite and had never heard of boundaries, and also once flew into a drunken rage in your office and destroyed your work space because Tony had decided it would be a good idea to introduce Thor to Fireball) but workplace etiquette dictated that you had to play nice with everyone. Loki had denounced therapy s a whole, as if psychology was as real as the illusions he used to cast, and stormed out of the room. 

It had taken time, effort, and some wine that you had no business spending as much money on as you had, but eventually, you managed to pry him open for psychoanalysis in the security of your small apartment. Turns out, the guy's got some heavy issues, though you knew that from the get-go. After several months of gently coercing drunk Loki to let you help him with his mental health, he had accidentally let it slip that he was in love with you. You were surprised, to say the least, and at that point knew for certain he was shitfaced, because he was never that open with anyone emotionally. You couldn't help but return the sentiment, though, as unprofessional as it was, because you'd grown terribly fond of him, as well as the foolish notion you could fix him. You knew how unlikely that second part was, but you thought that it was worth enough of a shot. You'd then forced him to drink as much water as possible and let him pass out next to you, and, after throwing up a few times while you held his hair back and he tried to mumble that he didn't want you there to see him in his weakness, you took him out for brunch. It was a shockingly nice time, and he seemed to remember both of your confessions. From then on, your closeness only grew, until he was (rather uncomfortably) walking into your office at all hours of the day to sit and distract you, which would have been very sweet if your job didn't involve mountains of paperwork you couldn't be distracted from and one-on-one confidentiality with coworkers. After over a full calendar year of half-ass dating Loki (you didn't get to go on dates often, on account of job-related stress and your boyfriend being a war criminal), you'd convinced him to go on a romantic camping trip with you.

The camping part had gone fine. The tent was perfectly sized for two people, even when those two people moved around an awful lot at night. You still feel a light ache in your thighs from that part. However, Loki had heard the sound of gently rushing water, and decided to go check it out. You had brought a river tube along for this very reason, as you knew there were decently-sized creeks all over the place here. You'd relied entirely on maps to get out here, and of course, as soon as you got them out to see where this creek was, exactly, the wind picked up and plonked your maps into the water. When you leaned in to try and retrieve them, the compass that had been assisting you also dropped from its spot in your back pocket, rolled down your spine, and cannon-balled into the bed of the creek, never to be found again on account of the murky depth. You had also planned on heading back after this, and hadn't packed any extra food because you didn't think you would still be out past lunch. By the time you had started fully panicking, Loki had inflated the tube and figured out himself how to float comfortably on top, legs stretched out into the cool water, eyes closed pleasantly. 

"Dearest," he calls you once again, "please stop. Your pacing is disrupting the peace. I know directions, love, and I can get us back, I'm sure. You're only making it worse for yourself." 

"Fuck you, I'm the psychologist here and I don't need the Lie Boy to tell me about my problems," you retort. You're very irritated with him. "I'm very irritated at you right now." He sighs and paddles his way back to the shore, standing up with way more grace than he has any right to. He shakes off some of the water that clings to him, walking over to trap you in his long arms. He sits the underside of his chin on top of your head in an effort to calm you, because you usually love it when he holds you like this. It's really goddamn cute when you're making omelets in the late morning in one of his shirts and he sweeps up behind you like this, all sleepy and precious, but right now it's kind of just further pissing you off. You huff and fight against the embrace, and he responds by bringing his hands up to rest atop your shoulders, locking you in even further. You hate how comfortable he is, because you're trying to retain your temper out of spite now and he's absolutely ruining it. You concede, and lean back into him.

"Fine," you tell him, "you lead us back, but if you get us even more lost I will cook and eat you." He snickers behind you, and you feel it vibrate through his chest. Damn it, you love that. He holds you like that for a bit longer before moving to deflate the float and get moving.

It takes him all of five minutes to get you to cross an old bridge that crosses the creek, and after about a mile of walking, you emerge into the parking lot of the campgrounds on the other side from where you entered. You gape at him.

"You knew how close we were, didn't you?" you ask him, irritation growing again. "You let me freak out for no reason?! You're a fucking prick, Loki!" He laughs and gives you a kiss on the cheek, which is still burning because you're angry and in love with a big dumb idiot. He looks at you with a mischievous glint in his eye, and you fucking. Right. He's into that whole fucking you up thing. You fumble in your backpack for your car keys and head over to the vehicle, being sure to call him a son of a bitch one more time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know if I'm any good at writing my favorite garbage boy, but here I am once again because he is indeed my favorite garbage boy. I just. I love my chaotic neutral chronic liar.


	4. 4. III. Above, There is an Attic [Black Widow]

She leaned back from the water heater with a huff, rubbing the back of her still-gloved hand across her forehead. She grunted something in Russian that you knew better than to ask for a translation of. You simply tapped her shoulder and offered her a cold water bottle from out of the cooler with a smile, which she immediately chugged half of before mumbling a small thanks and ducking back into the crevice between the machine and the wall.

You retreated back to the folding chair you'd set up a yard or so behind her, sipping on the remainder of liquid in the cheaply made plastic bottle. Home renovation was supposed to be fun. That's what Clint and Laura Barton had said, and what you had gathered from HGTV, which Nat was surprisingly fond of. Marrying one of the most feared and controversial women in the world wasn't exactly what you had planned, but here you were. Laura was a friend from a book club you were both a part of and mentioned a certain single redheaded friend of her husband's that she thought you would be interested in. You had recognized her on your first date together from that time when she leaked her own record and everyone flipped shit about it. Natasha Romanov was not an easy person to forget, but a very easy person to fall in love with.

The two of you had been through numerous struggles, including filing shared income taxes and James Buchanan Barnes, and had stayed strong throughout. This goddamn water heater was a threat to that peaceful love. You were desperately unprepared to fix any appliance (but more than ready to paint every wall in the house and install a subway tile backsplash, and also maybe a kitchen island with a granite top because they look SO GOOD on HGTV), so Nat got cracking on it first. It had been a week of trying to fix the fucking thing as it had been having problems since the month prior when you bought the house (which the real estate agent conveniently didn't tell you), and it wasn't going well at all. You'd called Clint behind Nat's back to see if he could offer any advice, but the fucker got a "professional" to install a new one, and if there was one thing that held true in your house, it was that you were way too proud for that. Your lovely wife was too much like you in that regard.

"You know what?" you grumbled, loud enough for Nat to hear you. "Maybe we should just throw out the whole house. I'm okay with being a cave-dweller in the Swiss Alps. If we do it together, we can become local legends. Two sorcerers in a mountain cave, granting wishes to good children. You wouldn't have to work for the government or murder people, and I wouldn't have to watch you slave over a fucked-up water heater feeling utterly useless." She stuck her head back out of the little closet that held the appliance and stared into the middle distance for a bit.

"I would say that's a good idea, _solnyshko_ , but I think I might be barred from entering Switzerland," she replies, turning her gaze to you with a half-smile. You sigh, moving from the chair to kneel by her on the floor, resting your head on her shoulder and pressing a chaste kiss to her bare shoulder. She's sweaty, as are you, and it's a little gross, but then you remember that the whole point of marriage is to be a little gross _together_. You stand, tugging to pull her up with you. She looks annoyingly stunning, because how the hell someone can be allowed to look so good in a tank top and cargo shorts is beyond you, and you guide your knight in shining messy bun to the stairs. 

"We should at least take a break. I want to see what's in the attic," you tell her, and she raises an eyebrow at you. "The real estate agent didn't tell us about the busted-ass water heater. Maybe he also neglected to tell us of a fortune hidden in the attic. Also, I want to put a window unit air conditioner up there and turn it into a reading nook. It has one of those big circle windows out front and I think it would be a fun place to have book club."

She grudgingly agreed, though she clearly wasn't thrilled about going upstairs. The two of you ascended to the space above the house, with you leading the way to see about any unknown treasures. There were, to your surprise and elation, a smattering of large boxes crowding the space, with smaller shoeboxes of assumedly personal items here and there. You pawed through those first, finding several photos of a man and woman, older in each one. Previous owners, you assumed. The larger boxes took several hours to work through. There were the usual suspects (seasonal decorations for the front lawn, long-forgotten stuffed animals, warped vinyl records, old VHS tapes marked in neat handwriting with the names of 80s TV shows and a couple of Muppets-related airings), as well as the instruments of old age. One box, formerly home to a faux Christmas tree, was stuffed with walking canes; another, marked to contain a humidifier, held a few pairs of the kind of little house shoes you only ever see owned by grandmothers. 

It was dark outside by the time Nat and yourself had reached the final box. It was massive, impossibly heavy, and bore the logo of a local hardware store the two of you had visited to pick out paint colors not three days earlier. That one, you decided, would force you to put away your pride. There was no hope of moving it away from the wall without a dolly, and you only knew one person who had one who lived anywhere close to nearby. You called him, and he assured you (with a bit of smugness in his voice) that he'd manage to make it out the following morning. You and Nat headed downstairs, ready to bathe and sleep after a long, sweat-filled day. You accompanied her to the shower but gave up on trying anything after Nat almost fell asleep while standing, which probably would have resulted in at least one cracked head. You toweled her off, and she returned the favor, drowsily nuzzling the nape of your neck. Shit, she was cute when she got tired. The two of you forced yourselves into something with enough coverage to be called pajamas and fell asleep on the mattress you still didn't have a bed frame set up for.

In the morning, you were awoken by a knocking at the door. Nat grunted, getting up to yell obscenities at whoever was at your house at five-thirty in the morning. That changed when you saw Clint and Laura, a gleaming red hand truck sitting on the porch between them. At that moment, you felt like crying, because after you saw the dolly, you realized that Clint also had his toolbelt on, which meant he was going to help you stubborn little fuckers. You didn't do that, because it would have been weird, but you DID drag the two of them (as well as their beautiful moving equipment) upstairs with you. After the force of four people shuffled the box onto the dolly, and the anxiety of trying to get it down a flight of stairs, it was in the living room, waiting to be opened. When it was, Nat almost sobbed beside you.

In the box, in all of its shining glory, sat a brand-new, never-before-seen, glimmering water heater. It must have been purchased by the older couple in the photos, but never installed and instead shuffled up to the attic for the purpose of the open houses the realtors had held once it was up for purchase.

Clint installed it in almost no time at all, with a bit of help moving the old one out and the new one in. 

"Great," said Natasha, looking you in the eyes with a bittersweet smile. "Now, for literally everything else in this goddamn house."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ┏┓   
> ┃┃╱╲ In this   
> ┃╱╱╲╲ house   
> ╱╱╭╮╲╲ we love   
> ▔▏┗┛▕▔ & appreciate   
> ╱▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔╲   
>  Natasha Romanov  
> ╱╱┏┳┓╭╮┏┳┓ ╲╲   
> ▔▏┗┻┛┃┃┗┻┛▕▔
> 
> I know the prompt probably could have been surreal or a little scary, and I thought about making it that, but then I was struck by the idea of a skilled assassin trying her hand at home improvements and couldn't argue with it.


End file.
